Just You
by writerofberk
Summary: Hiccup pushes himself a little farther than he can handle. Long one-shot. Father/son h/c with some healthy angst. Set two weeks after the first film. Rated for language.
_**Just You**_

 **A/N: This one-shot was a BITCH. Seriously. I'm not even sure it was worth all the work I put into it, but whatever. It's done now. It's written. This version took me three days; the first draft was okay, but there was something wrong with it, so I chucked it and started fresh. This is the result. And it's another Hiccup/Stoick father/son. Like who would have guessed.**

 **Some will probably say this is OOC, but considering the events of the first movie, I'd say this might have been likely to occur immediately afterward. Despite the contrary evidence in Riders of Berk, I just can't see a guy like Hiccup just running around and goofing off right after that emotional upheaval in HTTYD1. Chances are he still has insecurities from when he was known as a useless screw-up, and things like that don't just go away overnight. So. This is an idea I had about how things might have worked out.**

* * *

It was overwhelming.

Hiccup had been searching for the right word for a week straight and finally happened upon it; life on Berk – his life on Berk – was amazing now, but overwhelming.

It could have been that the first thing he saw every morning was his dragon's eager green gaze, his cool, scaly black snout pushing into his rider's neck, nuzzling him and licking him, never ceasing or relenting until the boy at last pushed back his covers and stumbled out of bed, muttering darkly about useless reptiles.

Once he had limped downstairs, rubbing at his stump all the way, he grabbed his riding vest on his way out the door, calling a quick good morning to his father before exiting, shooting off into the skies with his dragon.

And he honestly couldn't think of a better way to start the day.

Really, it was what came after the ride that overwhelmed him; once he'd yanked his prosthetic from Gobber's modified pedal and entered the ordinary flow of the village streets, people rushed at him immediately, some pausing to say hello and offer a quick smile; others to yell excitedly in his ear, congratulating him on his flight, asking him if he would teach them a trick he had performed, thanking him for his latest advice about handling contrary dragons; or posing questions – what to do when a dragon didn't want to take a bath? – or asking for help (is it normal for dragons to eat boots? Will they be okay afterward? Do you think Gobber will fix my boots for half-price if he knows that a dragon chewed them up?) or request a riding lesson.

There were so many questions, so many people, so many smiles, so many claps on the back, so many people calling him a hero, praise instead of put-downs, smiles rather than glares, pats instead of punches or a cold indifference, hero instead of failure…it was so amazing, yet so different.

At home, things were even stranger.

Others might hail him as a hero; Toothless might think him clever; Astrid might say he was brave; Gobber might bestow warm, proud smiles upon him in those quiet moments in the forge; but that first morning, when his eyes met his father's, he'd felt the meager self-confidence he'd built thanks to Toothless shrivel and wither, slain and silenced by fourteen years of disapproval and dislike. He had feared, in that moment when they locked gazes, that nothing would ever change between them; that life would continue as before between them, and his father would never look at him and he would never find the right words, the right way to make the proud, stern chieftain pause and _listen_ …

And the first words from his father's lips had been praise.

A smile, an arm around his shoulders, and the unspoken reassurance that this was a new day, a new chapter, and things between father and son could change as surely as the villagers could change, could accept the dragons.

Suddenly, his father was different. Suddenly, he was warm and kind and he smiled all the time, and started conversations with him and they actually talked, and the words flowed so easily and his dad was proud of him, he'd said he was proud, and Hiccup wouldn't let it slip away from him again, he'd do good this time, do better, he'd work harder…

Once the novelty of the battle wore off, the villagers might look up and realize he was still… _him_. Still a _hiccup_. A _runt._ Not a Viking, not anything special, not actually as good or smart or brave as they said, not really brave at all, just lucky; maybe a little smart, but only thanks to Gobber's teachings; not actually good or kind, just stumbling around, trying to do what was right.

Surely somebody would realize it soon – surely his dad would realize it soon – and things would go back to the way they were. Pretty soon, he'd fade, as unremarkable as the woodwork in the forge, nothing to notice or talk about, nothing to praise, nothing to be proud of, really his father was a smart man and he'd see in time that his son was still him, his name was still Hiccup and he wasn't brilliant or daring or heroic like everyone tried to tell him, it had just been a couple of dragons, _nothing to be proud of_ …

And Hiccup was used to it.

When the time came, when everyone decided he wasn't worth it anymore, realized he was still a screw-up and not very useful at all, they'd turn their backs and he could accept it. He wouldn't like it – he might never know what it was like to have a human friend – but he would be able to stand it. He had Toothless, and with his dragon, he could take anything the world threw at him.

But even so, he would enjoy the ride while it lasted. He would do everything he could, help the village at every possible opportunity, fix things, help with the dragons, handle the problems that arose with the creatures, try his hardest to be something more than what he was, and maybe – _maybe_ – this would never have to end. Maybe the other teenagers would still like him, still want to be his friend. Maybe Astrid would still hold his hand and hug him. _Maybe_ his father would still be proud.

He would never admit to these fears, never admit to just how many meals he'd skipped to help people; never admit to the mornings he'd risen early or the nights he'd retired late, tired eyes refusing to close until he'd done something right, something good, something useful. He would never admit how exhausting it was to work through everything, to bite his lip and bite back the pain in his stump, to ignore the hunger, to work through it, to keep going despite everything, despite exhaustion, despite stress, despite pain, despite hunger, despite a desperate desire to be in the skies with Toothless…

He would keep working. Keep a smile on his face, enjoy it while it lasted, and maybe, if he worked hard enough, he could earn their approval. For real this time.

And Hiccup would not say a word of complaint; despite his physical ailments, the fatigue and agony and anxiety, the hunger and sleeplessness, he would not say a word. He would not complain. He would not be weak. Not again.

Only Toothless seemed to notice the dark purple circles under his rider's bloodshot green eyes; only Toothless seemed to realize how far the human was pushing himself, sleeping little, ignoring or passing up meals in favor of people who needed him; only Toothless seemed to notice his rider's sagging posture and tired smiles, the late hours he kept, always at work, always moving, never slowing or stopping or asking for a break, ignoring his own needs, pushing down his own pain to help others.

Only Toothless noticed, and only Toothless tried to help; he attempted to lull the human to sleep whenever he could, deliver food whenever the boy's stomach growled, but Hiccup resisted all his friend's attempts; neglecting to eat the fish the dragon regurgitated, pushing the reptile away when the latter tried to calm the boy and bring him to a state of rest.

So it was on this particular day, Hiccup departed from the chieftain's hut greatly fatigued, noticeably thinner and beyond distressed, tired fingers clumsily buckling on his riding vest, stumbling and staggering, nearly falling down the hill – falling didn't actually sound so bad at this point, maybe he wouldn't have to get up – but righting himself with the help of his dragon, swinging one leg tiredly over Toothless' back, he was so tired, so tired, his leg hurt so badly today, he just wanted to sleep, but he couldn't, couldn't show weakness, couldn't be weak again, couldn't let anyone see how pathetic he really was, couldn't let them down, had to be there, couldn't screw up again…

"Hiccup!"

Oh, no. Not now. Not already. He was hoping to at least get in his morning flight before they cornered him. Stifling a groan, the teenager twisted in the saddle to face the speaker, forcing his lips into a smile – it suddenly seemed like an enormous effort. "Hey, Spitelout. Something wrong?"

The man's eyes narrowed. When he spoke, the word came out a murderous hiss. "Misty."

Hiccup sucked in a slow, agitated breath. "Oh, no. What now?"

Ever since he'd helped Snotlout form a bond with a Monstrous Nightmare, the other boy's younger sister, Adelaide, had been begging nonstop for a dragon of her own; Spitelout had finally, to her distress, told her she was too young to learn to ride. But, as a compromise, he'd allowed her to house and train a small Terrible Terror, whom she had christened 'Misty' and loved with all her seven-year-old heart. But Misty had a mischievous streak, and when the village was too quiet for her taste, she did everything she possibly could to wreak havoc upon the inhabitants, bringing the entertainment she craved.

"She keeps eating the soap," Spitelout launched immediately into his explanation. "Every time I bring in more, I tell Adelaide to keep her away from it – I even tried to tell her it wasn't food once, but it doesn't matter, she doesn't do what I say! Isn't there anything I can do to convince her that it _isn't_ edible?"

Had he been feeling like himself, Hiccup would have been surprised that the man used soap at all; but at the moment, all he could do was stifle a yawn behind his hand and close his eyes for the briefest second before forcing them open again. "You can rub raw eel skins over the soap before bringing it in the house. It might sound harsh, but if you let a dragon learn a lesson on her own, she tends to listen to you more after that."

"Good idea." Spitelout's eyes brightened. "Thanks."

"Mm." Hiccup was far too tired to give a proper reply, so merely turned to face the sky, locking his hands around Toothless' reins and—

"Hiccup?"

"Huh?" Swallowing down annoyance, he turned to look at the man, raising an eyebrow.

"Are you…" It seemed to take Spitelout a long time to find the right word. "Alright?"

"M-me?" Hiccup stuttered; it was the first time anyone, save Toothless, had expressed concern about his wellbeing since the day he'd awoken. "Y-yeah, I'm…I'm fine." The words tasted bitter on his tongue, the weight of the dishonesty cutting into him. Suddenly afraid his uncle would see the truth in his eyes, he dropped his gaze to the saddle, fidgeting with it. "Let me know if my advice works out. If it doesn't, I can…I can come up with something else." He'd think of something. He had to think of something. He had to keep being useful.

* * *

"Hiccup!"

"Wh-what?" Startled out of his temporary doze, the boy in question forced his eyes open, glancing up at the blond girl before wiping a hand over exhausted eyes that longed to close. "Astrid?"

"Hiccup, Stormfly's acting really—are you okay?"

"Me? Yeah. No. I'm fine. Don't…don't…" He couldn't think of the right word. Worry? That didn't seem right somehow. He abandoned that sentence for one he knew how to complete. "…Fine. What's wrong with…" For one moment, he couldn't even remember the Nadder's name. "Stormfly?" The word sounded awkward on his tongue.

"I don't know," Astrid admitted, grabbing his wrist and tugging him up out of his seat; he paused to push his plate away, ignoring the rumbling of his stomach. He'd eat later.

"She's just really irritable and kind of jumpy, she's even nervous around me…"

The distance between the Great Hall and the Hofferson hut seemed much, much longer than it ever had before; vision blurring, stump burning, stomach empty and aching, the boy raced after Astrid, not daring to slow lest she notice.  
By the time they reached the stable of the Nadder in question, Hiccup could barely keep himself upright; rushing through the open door, he collapsed on the wooden floor and half-crawled over to the dragon, extending a hand immediately to touch the dry, powder-blue scales, stretching exhausted lips into a smile. "H-hey, girl…it's me…you remember me, right? Hiccup…"

The Nadder suddenly recoiled; seemingly affronted at his attempts, she rose to her clawed feet and bolted, rushing past both the boy and her rider, straight out through the stable and into the village streets.

With a start, Hiccup realized he had forgotten to close the stable door.

He had screwed up again.

Cheeks burning, the boy scrambled to his feet, throwing out desperate apologies, pausing only moments to grasp Astrid's fingers and promise as seriously as he could that he would get Stormfly back, he would find her, he wouldn't let her fly away, and then he ran from the stable himself, eyes seeking out the dragon; he could just make her out, but she seemed so far away, and he could hardly see…

No. He had to get to her.

Firming his mouth, determination setting in, the boy took off after the rogue dragon, weaving in and out through people and buildings, charging straight through the forge at one point in hopes of gaining on her. Pain overwhelmed him, so acute it was almost blinding, and he stumbled, nearly lost his footing but regained himself, forced himself upright. He had to fix it. He'd screwed up. He'd made a mess. He had to fix it.

Every part of him protested against the demanding action, but he brushed it off, ignored it, couldn't think about it, no…

Hurtling over an upturned cart, the boy landed on his feet, but the impact jolted his bad leg, and for a moment, he almost couldn't stand.

He collapsed heavily against Toothless, black spots dancing in his vision, heart and head pounding almost in sync, his teeth clenched, his stump begging for a rest.

"Son?" And suddenly, for some reason, his father was there at his side, kneeling at his side and shame burned Hiccup from the inside out because _his father could have done this, his father wouldn't let pain stop him, his father wouldn't let anything stop him, why couldn't he just do anything right?_

"Hiccup?" The large hand found his son's shoulder, forestalling him as he tried to race away, to keep going.

"I'm fine," he choked and his hands were shaking and his legs were shaking and his stump throbbed and his lungs ached, begging for air, and he was so tired and he could barely see, everything had gone blurry and everything sounded strange and distant…

"…Hiccup…"

"I'm fine." Blackness overtook him; he slumped against his father's arm and knew no more.

* * *

Every time Stoick closed his eyes, the images burned behind his lids like somebody had tattooed them there, and his stomach twisted.

The skin around the wound, shiny-looking and sort of pinkish in places, raw, reddish and flaky in others, dead or damaged flesh actually peeling away in _strips_ …recalling Gothi's words, scrawled in the sand, messy but still readable, the chieftain closed his eyes and sank into the wooden chair with a groan.

 _Infection._

His son had been walking around with an infected leg. An infected stump. And he had seen no reason to tell anyone, no reason to _say_ something, anything would do at this point, he hadn't even seen a reason to take the day off…

 _Exhaustion._

At least with the infection, Stoick could claim ignorance. The last time he'd seen the amputated limb, his son had still been asleep, unconscious after the battle with the Green Death. When Hiccup had awoken again, he'd begun taking care of the wound himself, cleaning it, bandaging it by himself. The only way Stoick could have known for sure that his son was battling an infection was if the boy had allowed him to see it for himself.

But sleep deprivation took a _visible toll_ on people. His son had been stumbling around on not only an infected stump, but little rest to boot, for almost two straight weeks and Stoick hadn't seen. Hadn't noticed. Hadn't been any the wiser.

 _Stress._

He should have noticed this, too; should have picked up on it, and the fact that he hadn't burned like acid in the pit of his stomach. He should have seen it. His son had practically made himself _sick_ on stress alone, according to Gothi; she hadn't been the one greeting him every morning when he limped down the stairs, the one wishing him a good night every evening when he ascended them again; and yet she had seen what he could not. _Why_ hadn't he seen it?

And _weight loss?_

Hiccup was skinny. He'd always known that. How had he not realized it when the boy started becoming even thinner? According to Gothi, his son looked like he'd lost an easy six pounds in two weeks, and yet he, Stoick, his father, had failed to notice anything amiss. Even when the boy waved a dismissive hand at his offers of breakfast, Stoick hadn't seen, hadn't noticed. For Thor's sake, he was the boy's _father_ , and if this was what it took to make him look at his son…

And why hadn't his son said anything?

He hadn't been fine. Gothi's assessment had made that plain enough. Hiccup hadn't been fine, no matter how many times the words had left his mouth. And yet Stoick had believed him. His son, his boy, had been suffering and struggling all alone, and he hadn't said a word. Why not? For gods' sake, the kid had proven himself brilliant, and yet he still acted like he didn't possess the sense Odin gave a rock. One sentence was all it would have taken; a simple, "I don't feel like working today"; an honest, "I think I'm getting sick"; "I don't think I got enough sleep"; the numberless possibilities danced in Stoick's head, taunting him.

His son could have said something. Anything. And he _hadn't_.

* * *

When Hiccup next awoke, he wasn't quite sure where he was; somewhere warm, he knew, and extremely comfortable, and for a moment, all he knew was that he felt _okay_.

Over the past two weeks – he could hardly believe what a short time it had actually been; looking back, it felt rather like two years – his physical condition had been steadily worsening; every hour of sleep he missed, every meal he skipped, every problem he solved had been taking its toll on him, and he couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so…good? No. He didn't feel good. Not exactly. He was still tired; his eyes still longed to close; his stomach was still rumbling and empty; his leg was still paining him, just a bit – the agony had calmed to a bearable sensation – but he felt…average. He felt normal again. A bit more like himself.

All his desire, all his determination to be strong had not helped him; never in his life had he felt weaker than he had lately.

Sagging back against the pillow, the boy released a contented sigh. He just wanted to stay here forever, to turn over and fall back asleep and never wake up…he just wanted to return to the peaceful dreamland, lose himself in slumber's heavy embrace, just close his eyes and never open them again. He had never been so tired in his life, and if he slept, he couldn't solve any problems, no one could come to him and ask him about their Nightmare or Zippleback or Gronckle or Nadder—

Nadders. Nadder… _Stormfly_.

"Stormfly!" Physically wrenching himself away from his little dream world with all the strength in his small, overworked body, Hiccup sat up on his elbow and kicked the blanket off his legs, eyes straying immediately to the window. It was almost dark now, and she'd escaped her stable at noon…she might still be running wild through the village streets, might even now be wreaking havoc…might have even taken off into the skies, might be lost forever, might never come back and Astrid would be so upset, Astrid would be heartbroken if she lost her dragon and it would be all his fault and everyone would see what a failure he really was and he'd be Hiccup the Useless again and everyone would forget that he'd ever been anything more.

Forcing himself fully upright, the boy swung his legs over the side of the bed, glanced momentarily around for Toothless in the hopes that the dragon might help him, but upon seeing the snoozing creature, shrugged it off, started to rise—

-and stopped.

His leg was gone.

The moment the thought crossed his mind, laughter tickled the back of his throat, threatening to burst out into the air. _Of course_ his leg was gone, it had been gone, he'd been enduring a sort of stabbing pain in the stump for days, as if his body was reminding him of the loss, and yet the empty trouser leg surprised him. Somehow, he had not expected anybody to have unbuckled his prosthetic. He supposed he hadn't really expected to awaken here, either, he reflected, reaching automatically for the metal contraption, beginning to buckle it on over the tender stump. If he was being honest with himself, he wasn't sure where he'd expected to find himself; still in the street? The forge, maybe, with Gobber's horrible singing biting into his consciousness and forcing him to rejoin the waking world?

He hadn't expected his father to take him home. Even when he'd collapsed in the man's arms, sinking gratefully into the warm, reassuring strength of his father's muscles, voices in his head berating and belittling him every step of the way _– what the hell do you think you're doing, you can't sleep, no, you can't rest, get back up you pathetic little screw-up, get back up and keep going, don't be weak, don't be a failure, no, just get back up and keep going, you don't need sleep, a real Viking doesn't need sleep –_ he hadn't expected his father to take him home and try to make him comfortable while he rested. He'd failed; he'd been weak; his father shouldn't have done this, shouldn't have tried to help him, that just made things worse, made him look weaker than he already was…

Doing up the last buckle, the boy took a deep breath, fingers closing around the wooden bedpost, preparing himself for pain.

Across the room, the door flew open before he could rise, and his father strode into the room, carrying a small wooden bowl.

For a moment, the man didn't notice his son's state; he was too busy gazing at whatever was in the dish he carried, prodding it with his fingers and throwing it uncertain glances – when at last he lifted his tired gray eyes from the contents of the bowl and spotted Hiccup, sitting upright, he stopped dead in the middle of the room. The boy noticed his knuckles tightened around the rim of the bowl.

The silence between them was thick and extremely uncomfortable; the teenage Viking, fidgeting with his sleeve, felt he ought to say something, but he wasn't quite sure _what_. Nothing he said would make things any better; words couldn't fix what he'd done. Only action could. He needed to get back out there and find out where Stormfly had gone and then he'd work really, really hard and hopefully within the week everyone would forget that he'd ever been weak at all, and life could continue as before, and things could stay the same…

"Hiccup." The chieftain's voice was stern and stiff; cold.

A flush of shame rose into the freckled face; no, there were words that would make this better. He had embarrassed his father in front of half the village, and he had to let the man know how sorry he was. "Dad. I…" Placing his hands in his lap, he clenched the small fingers into weak, shaking fists and drew in a breath. "I-I'm _sorry_. I didn't mean…I mean, I didn't…really…it was just…"

The man closed the distance between them in three strides, kneeling down in front of his son and placing the bowl on the bed beside him; Hiccup cast it a quick glance and noticed it was full of some sort of thick, mint-green paste. "What were you _thinking_?"

"I'm sorry," he repeated, and he truly meant it this time, "I'm r-really sorry, I just…I don't know what happened—

" _I_ don't knowwhat happened, either," the man broke in; his voice was still cold and hard as fresh frost. "I don't understand how somebody as smart as you could be so _stupid_."

"I'm sorry," Hiccup repeated, biting down so hard on his lip he tasted blood; his heart crumpled at his father's words. It was worse than he'd thought, maybe it had been more than half the village crowding around him by the time he'd passed out, maybe everyone had seen, maybe Stormfly really had flown away, maybe everyone blamed him, maybe Astrid blamed him, maybe his father was realizing how stupid it was to be proud of somebody like him. "I didn't mean to—I mean, I just wanted—I didn't realize—I…I screwed up. Big-time. But I swear, Dad, I will track her down and I'll bring her back home. Toothless can see really well at night and he can overtake a Nadder, no problem, I'll be gone as long as it takes, just let me grab my—

The man's brow knitted. "What are you _talking_ about?"

Cheeks flushing, the boy admitted quietly, "I accidentally left Stormfly's stable door open…she got out, she might have flown away, I'm sorry—

"Son." Stoick suddenly sounded much gentler than Hiccup had ever heard him; the chieftain put a hand on the boy's good knee, forestalling him. "The Nadder's alright. The Hofferson girl tracked her down – it turns out there was peppermint growing near her stable, and the smell was upsetting her. It's been dealt with. You don't have to worry."

"You're not mad?"

"Son…" Raking thick fingers through the boy's wayward auburn locks, the chieftain said, "I'm probably more furious than I've _ever_ been. But I'm not mad about the Nadder. No. I was never mad about the Nadder."

Hiccup drew away from his father's touch. "I didn't mean to _any_ of it; if I could take it all back, believe me, I _would_ – it's not exactly my idea of a fun time to embarrass us in front of the village, but—

"Embarrass us?"

"W-well…I mean…I just made a total fool of myself, just blacking out like that and what I do reflects on you—

"For Thor's sake!" Without any sort of warning at all, Stoick withdrew his hands from his son's hair, instead clenching them into fists and slamming them, hard, down onto the bedpost. "Will you listen to yourself? I don't care! I don't give a damn about any of that, the fact is, you could have killed yourself! Walking around on an infected leg, what were you thinking? Do you think that kind of thing doesn't take its toll on people? Think you're invincible? Why didn't you treat it? You could have asked somebody! You could have asked Gobber! You could have asked _me_!" As if remembering the bowl he'd brought into the room, the man grabbed the dish from the bed and began rolling up his son's trouser leg, thick fingers working to undo the buckles of the prosthetic.

"I-infected?" Hiccup repeated blankly, but his father was too far gone to listen.

"You could have died! Losing sleep, losing food, practically _running yourself into the goddamn ground_ , and for what? What were you thinking? _And you think I care about embarrassment?! Why did you do this?!"_

"I…I didn't know…"

At Stoick's incredulous look, the boy hastily added, "R-really, I didn't. I didn't know my leg was infected, I just…I mean…"

"And you didn't think maybe it was hurting for a reason?" The chieftain practically hissed, gray eyes burning with fury as he undid the last of the buckles; setting the metal contraption aside, he began carefully applying the paste to the painful stump.

"It didn't hurt badly," Hiccup defended himself, shifting slightly at the sudden, renewed torment in his wound; obvious lie. Even on those nights that he'd gotten in bed at a reasonable hour, he'd lain awake for hours, gritting his teeth against the pain. "A-and Gobber told me to expect a couple twinges every now and then, I didn't think—

"An infection gives you more than a _twinge_! For the love of Freya, it even looked bad! Why didn't you ask somebody?"

"I'm not weak!" Hiccup fired back. "I don't need to go crying to somebody just because it hurts, I can deal with it on my own!"

"You didn't _have_ to! I could have helped! You could have taken a break!"

"It's just a little pain; I didn't _need_ a break!"

" _You collapsed in the middle of the street!_ You were _sick_!" His father slammed the bowl back down upon the floor with more force than necessary.

"I'm fine! It wasn't a big deal!" Why wasn't his father scolding him about the scene he'd made? If anything about this day warranted a lecture, it was that!

"Why didn't you say something? All you had to do was say you didn't feel well—

"But I felt fine! I _was_ fine! I am! I don't get what you're so mad about!"

"You weren't thinking! You never think! You just plunge right in and never think about—

"I have been thinking! This whole _week_ , I've been thinking about how I don't want to be an _embarrassment_ anymore! I'm just trying to make you _proud!"_ He didn't mean for those words to be the ones that fell from his lips, tumbling off his tongue; but when they did, when they hung in the air, soaking in all the sound until there was not a thing to be heard, he felt a swift sense of something like relief. He had been working for two straight weeks, sorting out problems and smiling at everyone and pushing his weaknesses as far down as he possibly could, muddling through everything on his own, struggling with everything in him to be something more than a disappointment, a hiccup, a runt, a _failure,_ a _screw-up_ …

And now, despite the shame burning in his freckled cheeks, despite his father's shocked gray stare, despite the ringing silence his words had left in their wake…there was something almost like relief mixing with everything else.

At least now somebody _knew_ , at least he wasn't hiding it anymore, at least it didn't feel like some sort of secret that he needed to keep, at least it was out in the open and even if his father didn't understand, even if the man told him to stop trying, told him he would never be proud, said that every word they'd exchanged was nothing, all the praise was meaningless, all the warm smiles and proud gazes and compliments weren't real, had never been real and didn't matter, had never mattered, then at least he'd know, at least he'd know instead of running in frantic circles, trying desperately to gain the approval of the crowd when it turned out there was no one watching after all.

When it seemed the chieftain was truly not going to speak, Hiccup cleared his throat as quietly as he could and closed his fingers around the bedpost. "So…I _am_ sorry that I let Stormfly get away and embarrassed you and all. Turns out I'm not so good at making people proud of me."

"Hiccup." Before he could rise, the chieftain seized his arm, tugging him gently back down to the bed. "I—you need—we should…"

"Dad, _really_ —

"Hiccup, no—

"D-dad, I don't—

"—son—

"—it's not important—

"—please—

"—really—

"— _listen_."

Silenced, the boy went still upon his bed; the only thing that moved was his eyes, flicking uncomfortably from the fraying red quilt to his father's ruddy face and back again.

Stoick waited a moment, but when his son made no further attempts to escape or interrupt him, he drew in a breath and began to speak. "Son, you don't…you don't have to try and…and _make_ me proud."

 _Why not?_ Hiccup wondered. It was what he had been striving to achieve for fourteen years and counting; he saw no reason to quit now.

"I know…" Here, it seemed Stoick could not hold his boy's gaze; turning away from him, allowing his eyes to rest on the wooden walls, he said quietly, "…I know what things were like between us…back then. But I'm going to make things right. I haven't

always been…the best father. And I know that. But I'll make things right."

Hiccup was silent for a moment.

"Son?" The chieftain prodded quietly.

"What about afterward?" Lifting green eyes from the blanket at last and meeting the other's gaze, the boy ventured softly, "What about after the novelty of the dragons and everything wears off? When everyone else stops liking me? Will you be proud of me then or will I be the village idiot again?" The moment he spoke the words, he dropped his head, gaze falling back upon the quilt.

"Alright." Putting a hand under his son's chin, Stoick gently forced the boy's head upward, locking eyes with him once again. "Let's get one thing straight right now: there is not a single thing you did in that battle with that dragon that made me proud. Do you want to know why I'm proud of you? Yeah? I'm proud of you because I _know_ you. I know how things were back then, but they're different now. I didn't know you then. The day you showed up to help us fight the dragon queen, I stepped back and I really _looked_ at you. I never gave it much thought before, but that day, I realized how _brave_ you were. How…how brilliant. How observant and insightful, and strong…you blew me away, Hiccup. I wasn't sure what to think – all I could think for a second was how proud I was."

Wide-eyed, his son gazed at him, mouth slightly open, eyebrows lost amid an auburn hairline.

"And if you never train another dragon, I'll still be just as proud as I was on that day."

"Really?"

"It was never about the dragons, son. It was always you. _Just_ you."


End file.
